Yes, Mummy
by AxOforever
Summary: Lestrade and Mycroft are not pleased at the duo's latest life-threatening escapades. Mystrade, Johnlock if you'd like. Written for a prompt request


**This was a prompt given to me by the wonderful Kalida on a Sherlock Prompt forum. Hope this meets your standards!**

There were at least half a dozen police cars flashing their lights eerily in the dark, smoky night. And ambulance screamed past the firemen dousing the factory in frigid water. Had the British Government not had his ID on him, his driver never would have been allowed past the web of yellow police tape. Even so, the car was not permitted past a certain point due to the raging flames engulfing the building before him. Mycroft spared a glance at the small huddle of rescued hostages through the tinted window, recognising many of his colleague's ashen faces. Quiet panic flared in his stomach as he realised one was missing, but Mycroft relaxed as the ambulance sped past. It wasn't the ideal solution, but it was far better than the alternative.

_He certainly took care in his work. Kidnapping and arson don't usually go hand in hand._

The recent string of government disappearances had captured both of the Holmes' attentions—Sherlock had found it interesting, and Mycroft, while rather pleased at the lack of competition for the upcoming elections, was a bit concerned for his own wellbeing. It had taken several days and quite a few threats to get his brother to take the case, though, as the stubborn git insisted it was only a "five". Mycroft knew better than that. Three days and another disappearance later, Sherlock was named an official member of parliament and abducted later the same night.

Of course, the government official hadn't exactly _known _his brother had taken a highly illegal course of action—_posing as a member of parliament? Was the man _trying _to get arrested?—_and was now tasked with making certain no charges were leveled against them.

Mycroft was sure he would be filled in on all the exciting details soon enough by the Detective Inspector in charge of the case, who was currently screaming himself hoarse as two familiar figures in the back of an ambulance. The sound of small clicks stopped for a moment as he sighed, Anthea pausing in her oh-so-important texting to look at her boss. "Everything alright, Sir?" she asked, going back to her Blackberry.

"Just marveling at how idiotically my brother acts sometimes."

"Again, Sir?"

The elder Holmes nodded his reply and stepped out of the car, taking great care to avoid getting ash and flaming embers on his expensive suit. As he got closer, Mycroft recognised the Detective Inspector yelling at his brother and Dr. Watson, exasperatingly running a hand through his greying hair. Recently divorced from a cheating wife, no children, young enough for being on the force for a good ten odd years,five or six years. The DI had an exclusive file for being one of few people to initiate contact with Sherlock on more than a few occasions. Strangely enough, his brother hadn't seemed to drive the inspector away yet; even more strange was that he continued to allow him on his crime scenes—which his superior didn't know about, surely.

Both Sherlock and John sported orange shock blankets around their shoulders, John's pulled tightly around himself while Sherlock's was merely a precaution. The doctor looked to be in a very bad way, shivering and clutching the steaming cup of tea in his clammy hands. Sherlock's arm was draped protectively over his shoulders, lanky arm long enough to press his fingers against the good doctor's wrist, worriedly checking his pulse. Lestrade shook his head in the middle of his rant; John had nearly drowned when the arsonist shoved him into a stale vat of water left over from the abandoned factory's olden days. Now he was at risk of hypothermia, but the EMTs had assured them he could wait until they got done checking over the rest of the victims. Even Greg thought that was an idiotic move—the man was very nearly going into shock.

He continued his angry tirade. "You are so _damned_ lucky John had his gun—_don't give me that look, Watson, I know you have that browning and I know it's unlicensed—_or else you'd both be _dead _ right now, do you hear me? You two and your bloody danger cravings! Damn it, Sherlock, if you hadn'tshot him—"

"The criminal mastermind who I've apprehended while rescuing the government agents he nearly murdered? I believe he would have torched the building with all of us inside, or at least that was his intention," Sherlock intoned, grey eyes flashing. Even so, he felt the slightest bit panicked. In the five years Lestrade had let him on his cases, the worst the man would do was argue and threaten him about his use of deduction skills and how he solved cases. Never had there been _this_—screaming, cursing, flailing limbs, mentioning John's gun. It was almost as if the man _cared_ that they almost didn't survive. He would never understand sentiment.

"—which is exactly my point! You can't just keep coming up with these fool hardy ideas and expect them to work!—"

"But it did work—"

Lestrade was about ready to strangle the man. "_Pretending to be a member of Parliament?! Did you even know that's illegal?! Do you realise how much paperwork this is going to be?! People actually think you're part of the fucking government!_"

It was then the Detective Inspector noticed the ginger man in a posh suit clearing his throat next to him. Obviously the man had been trying to get his attention for quite some time, and Lestrade had been too caught up in berating the two insane men in front of him to notice. Sherlock didn't seem particularly pleased to see him either, eyes narrowing dangerously when he caught sight of him. "What do you want, Mycroft?" he spat, sneering, "Has Anthea got your cake?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes, John snorted and Lestrade…was utterly bewildered. Who the hell did this guy think he was, waltzing onto his very clearly marked crime scene like he was hot shit? Greg would wager a few good pounds the guy wouldn't last two seconds against most of the criminals they dealt with on a daily basis. "I am here to see if you and my colleagues are alright, believe it or not," Mycroft gave the two men in the ambulance a cheerless smile, silently promising revenge against his brother for never letting go of his rather large teenage years.

"Please, you're just here to see who has become ineligible for the elections."

"Whether or not I happened to notice Jefferson and Arthurs have dropped out does not mean anything and is none of your business—"

"Says the man who practically ordered me to solve this case for you. You'll be covering the hospital bill when these incompetent monkeys finally get around to treating John, dear brother. _Again_."

John shivered and stuttered, "Sher-Sherlock, I'm f-fine. Just a bit cold-d is all."

Sherlock tightened his arm around John's shoulders. "Obviously you are not, or else I wouldn't need to share my body heat with y—"

"That's your own damn fault, Sherlock!" Lestrade, forgotten until that point, decided to join in the conversation, "If you would just put a tiny smidge of your brain power into thinking for your own safety, John wouldn't _need _to be sent to the hospital!"

Mycroft sighed, exasperated after only five minutes, "I would not need to constantly pay your bills if you both would not continue to get yourselves injured."

"I swear, next time I won't let you on my case!"

"The next time you can stitch your wounds in that death trap you call a home."

Sherlock growled, "You can stop pretending to be mother, now, Mycroft," the same time John rolled his eyes and sarcastically bit, "Yes, Da," at Lestrade.

An incredibly awkward, incredibly silent moment grew into being then. Lestrade and Mycroft finally acknowledged each other's existence when Sherlock and John had referred to them each as a parental figure—overbearing parental figures, it would seem. Piercing eyes similar to Sherlock's scrutinized the silver haired man, deducing him, taking his character apart bit by bit. He was sturdily built, a bit heavyset and towards the shorter side but taller than John at the very least. Once-dark hair was greying significantly, most likely due to the stress of his job—but it was obvious he loved what he did. He was a nice shade of nutty brown—holiday in southern Italy or Spain during the warmer months—and had a pleasant enough smile. For a male, of course. As he had aforementioned in his earlier deductions, the DI was recently divorced from a long time partner, probably female—_obvious by the bruises under his eyes—_cheating spouse who had multiple partners before ending it—_his file shows an certain taste for adultery cases. _Unfortunately, he was far from over her, judging by the small, faux-diamond encrusted ring hanging by a chain on his neck. Pity.

Mycroft smiled tightly at him, frozen as if his face wasn't used to forming the gesture. "I don't believe we've been introduced," he began, awkwardly sticking out his hand to shake, "Mycroft Holmes."

The DI's eyebrows went up a significant margin, glancing between him and Sherlock as if suddenly making the connection. "Sorry—are you his brother?"

"Unfortunately," Mycroft breathed, earning him a smile from the other man, who took the offered hand in a friendly shake.

"Greg. Greg Lestrade."

"Charmed." For once, the government official actually meant it. There was something about the D—_Greg_—that was particularly enjoyable. Perhaps this was what John felt like to Sherlock—once abnormally interesting man amidst a sea of idiots. Or maybe it was his unusually high tolerance to his unusually annoying brother.

Said younger Holmes had been watching the display closely, smirking as he caught the unspoken connection between the two. Balanced probability suggested he would have said something, too, had Mycroft not shot him the _If-you-ruin-this-I-will-have-you-evicted-and-penni less-by-the-end-of-the-week _death glare. That, and a sharp elbow in the ribs by John, whose grin stretched from ear to ear as he had also caught on.

By now, though, the handshake had gone on a bit too long to be casual and the mood had reverted back to its original uncomfortable level. The tips of Lestrade's ears had gone red and Mycroft's palm was sweating. The two yanked their hands away uneasily and offered strained smiles, much to the amusement of Sherlock and John. Well, mainly Sherlock. John had gone peaky again and looked to be close to fainting. Fortunately, for both John's sake and the sake of rescuing an awkward moment, an EMT _finally _ambled over, took one look at John and declared his health unstable enough to take the ambulance to the hospital. Everyone in the immediate vicinity heard Sherlock's rather uncouth snort of, "It's about time!"

John reddened at his flatemate's rudeness. "Sher-"

"No, John, these incompetent "medical personnel" are obviously under qualified for the jobs they possess! I have half a mind to…"

Both Mycroft and Lestrade had tuned out the taller man's rant by now, both used to it and neither wanting to deal with the petulant brat that was Sherlock Holmes at the moment nor what half of his mind planned to do. The Detective Inspector gave him a tired grin and handed a card over. "Just in case Sherlock's getting too much to handle sometime," he said, pointing out that the email address worked better than the phone number on the card. Mycroft's heart fluttered ever so slightly at the small sentiment—_what? _

"Believe me, Detective Inspector, I shall make certain to use this," and with a fleeting look towards his brother, who was now arguing vehemently at the EMT's decision that only family could ride along in the ambulance with John, Mycroft added, "Although it might come sooner than you'd wish."

Lestrade sighed and, with one more quick smile in the other man's direction, turned back to offer Sherlock a ride along in his car. Mycroft retreated to his own car with the sound of Sherlock demanding the sirens be put on so the "idiotic fools causing traffic" knew it was an emergency, distantly thinking, _Well that was…unexpected_.

Greg watched Sherlock's brother leave as the detective ranted behind him, wondering, _What the hell just happened? _

**Aannnd fin! Possibly. Depends on how Kalida feels. :P her fic, after all! Review your thoughts, please! And please be kind, this was my first Mystrade and possible Johnlock fic. Definite Mystrade, read into the relationship between John and Sherlock however you like. Thanks for reading!**


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